Idle Days
by hieronymuslies
Summary: This could be seen as somewhat of a sequel to "A Taste for Delicacies", though it's not mandatory for one to have read it to understand this. Slash, Bernard/Sir Humphrey. Musings on a relationship.


This could be read as either a sequel to 'A Taste For Delicacies', or as something separate. I suppose I'd argue for more of a sequel than anything. Though I had intended to end it ambiguously, this little thing came out. So no, it's not really ambiguous anymore. My apologies.

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It was after the show when Bernard first became aware of it. Of the darted looks the older man gave him, hands on the door, holding it open.

The darted looks that soon turned peering, introspective even, and he knew that it was never a safe thing when Sir Humphrey was introspective, when he peered, when he gave one darted looks while playing gentlemen (a game Sir humphrey had perfected).

The ride was silent, the space between them wide enough to be impossible to cross. And part of him knew it would come to this. That it would always come to this, so long as they knew each other. So long as looks continued to be darted and the game continued to be played.

It was his turn now, after all. It had been his turn since the garden and Sir Humphrey had said he knew, he knew. Bernard had then understood what it took to make a Judas.

Sir Humphrey's office had changed little since he had last been in it. Six months ago. Maybe more. Maybe less. He couldn't remember. And the smell of herbal tea diffused through the house reminded him of Lady Appleby's smile as she put the kettle on. He had been in the kitchen, two weeks or so ago though now it may have been a lifetime for what it was worth. Sorry, Sir Humphrey's out, she had said. But she would tell him he had called. It was nice to see Humphrey making new friends. He had assured her that they had been friends for a while (though his tongue had wanted to stick at the word 'friend'). She laugh an, "I'm sure" and offered him some coffee cake. It had been the best coffee cake he had ever had and he realized why they hadn't divorced.

There was brandy again, not sherry. Bernard's gaze caught Sir Humphrey's and he was at a loss as to what to say. He wasn't sure if he had ever known what to say. Words never were his forte, though he had tried to make them so. He had spent years hiding in them, using their history, their grammar, their details to ward off something. He wasn't sure what, yet. But he reasoned that the something to do with Sir Humphrey's eyes when they met his, had to do with Sir Humphrey's hands when they brushed his fingers, cheek, thigh, lips, had to do with the setting sun and the rising moon, had to do with the rotation of the earth and that he had long forgotten how to sleep at night.

The silence was weighing in and words needed to be spoken, needed to be spoken like the two men needed to breath. The silence hurt, made every bone in him ache. Or was it the older man's gaze? He couldn't tell, didn't want to be able to tell. To be able to tell would be to know and _that _would hurt entirely too much. He had long since envied ministers. At least their refuge was insured.

He felt his lips move as he said words, words that meant nothing to either of them. He mentioned the beautiful weather, the beautiful sun, the beautiful parlor, or was it a sitting room? The beautiful way that the dancers had moved, the beautiful evening, everything was beautiful, it didn't matter in the specifics. Sir Humphrey had replied, demurely, coyly, curiously. Their eyes were no longer meeting. The coffee table between them would do.

A childhood memory floated by, they were in a hotel in Brussels, and they were siting up late, watching the world cup. Sir Humphrey had said something about enjoying sports but not understanding them and Bernard had replied that it was much the same with humans. And there had been that silence. That silence that was there now, even though they were speaking. Speaking in a foreign tongue that Bernard wished to erase. Weren't they capable of _speech_?

A clink of glass as Sir Humphrey leaned forward, snifter neglected on the table, a warm hand was cupping his face, finger stroking just under his ear. Sir Humphrey's eyes were dark with that thing Bernard couldn't name, that thing he didn't want to name.

"I think," came the whisper against his skin. "Bernard," a kiss followed the purr, just along his jaw. "That it will be all right." Their lips met.

"In the end," Bernard murmured.

"In the end."


End file.
